Story  ofChantecler 


Marco  F.  Liberma 


ifornia 
mal 

ity 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 


CHANTECLER 


THE 
STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

A 
Critical  Analysis  of  Rostand's  Play 


BY 
MARCO  F.  LIBERMA 

Professor  of  Romance  Languages  in  the  University  of  Cincinnati 


NEW  YORK 

MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 
1910 


Copyright,  1910,  by 

MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 

NKW  YORK 


All  Eights  Eetened 
Published  July,  1910 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


CHANTECLER      . Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE. 

THE  HEN  PHEASANT    .  20 


CHANTECLER    CROWS    TO    MAKE    THE 
SUN    RISE 28 

MADAME     LE     BARGY     AS     THE     HEN 
PHEASANT  ...     46 


Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
The  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long: 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad  ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome;  then  no  planets  strike, 
No  fairy  takes,  nor  witch  hath  power  to  charm, 
So  hallow'd  and  so  gracious  is  the  time. 

(Hamlet,  Act  i,  Scene  I.) 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

A  FEW  days  before  the  first  public  performance 
of  Rostand's  play,  M.  Claude  Mill  gave  in 
the  Gil  Bias  what  one  may  call  the  external  history 
of  Chantecler.  This  was  not  much  more  than  a 
chronology  of  hopes  deferred,  but  the  facts  pre- 
sented there  will  prove  none  the  less  interesting. 
They  will  go  far  towards  explaining  the  many  diffi- 
culties that  beset  the  play  before  it  could  at  last  be 
publicly  performed. 

On  June  the  5th,  1903,  the  day  after  Rostand's 
reception  by  the  French  Academy,  he  confided  to 
a  journalist  friend  of  his  that  since  writing  "  I'Ai- 
glon  "  (in  1900)  he  had  not  written  a  single  verse, 
not  one,  .  .  .  but  he  was  returning  that  day  to 
Cambo  with  the  firm  determination  to  write  a  play. 
He  had  two  or  three  of  them  composed  in  his  mind. 
He  would  write  one  of  them,  of  that  he  was  sure. 
On  the  28th  of  June  of  that  year,  Rostand  and  his 
family  left  Paris  for  their  lovely  country-place,  the 

3 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

fairy-like  chateau  at  Cambo,  on  the  western  slopes 
of  the  Pyrenees.  On  the  25th  of  October,  1904, 
Pierre  Mortier  wrote  that  Coquelin  had  just  re- 
turned to  Paris  from  Cambo,  bringing  with  him  a 
new  play  by  Edmond  Rostand,  a  play  which  was 
entirely  finished,  and  which  would  surely  be  repre- 
sented that  year.  Coquelin's  enthusiasm  knew  no 
bounds.  He  affirmed  that  his  role  would  certainly 
be,  together  with  that  of  Cyrano,  the  most  beauti- 
ful in  his  career  as  an  actor.  Urged  by  newspaper 
men  to  give  the  title  of  the  play,  Coquelin  would 
not  do  so,  but  left  it  to  Rostand  to  let  them 
know  that  and  more;  for  Rostand  had  expressed 
a  desire  that  all  this  be  absolutely  left  to  him. 
But  the  play  would  be  given  during  the  season 
of  1904-1905  at  the  Gaiete,  and  this  announce- 
ment was  to  be  considered  official.  In  view  of  the 
fact  that  we  had  to  wait  six  years  more  for  the  play, 
the  above  statements  are  interesting  and  significant. 
It  was  not  until  the  8th  of  December  of  the  year 
1904,  that  anything  was  known  of  the  title  of  the 
play.  Rostand  himself,  it  is  said,  had  long  been 
uncertain  as  to  what  the  title  should  be.  A  month 
later,  Adolphe  Brisson,  the  dramatic  critic  of  Le 

4 


Temps,  returned  from  Cambo.  "  You  will  find," 
he  wrote,  "  in  the  play  Rostand  has  just  finished,  a 
revelation  of  the  emotions  which  nature  gives  him. 
The  play  now  needs  but  a  few  touches  here  and 
there.  .  .  .  This  work  of  revision  is  so  tiresome ! 
Coquelin,  indeed,  upbraids  him  for  his  indolence." 
During  that  year,  however,  on  February  23 rd  and 
the  9th  of  April,  Rostand, — "  the  indolent  Ros- 
tand,"— published  two  poems  in  the  Figaro;  one  of 
these  a  long  poem  of  six  hundred  lines  on  the  words 
of  the  French  language. 

The  following  year,  on  the  2Qth  of  January, 
1906,  Rostand  is  in  Paris  and  it  is  said  that  Mme. 
Simone  Le  Bargy  has  been  approached  with  refer- 
ence to  a  role  in  Chantecler.  Later,  in  April,  Ros- 
tand is  again  in  Paris  and  seems  anxious  to  avoid 
all  discussion  of  the  play;  but  the  fact  leaks  out 
that  the  first  act  is  to  be  situated  in  a  barn-yard. 
A  year  later,  April  1907,  it  is  learned  that  Gali- 
paux  is  to  play  the  part  of  the  Black-bird.  In 
February  1908,  Mile.  Augustine  Leriche  is  en- 
gaged for  the  role  of  the  Guinea-fowl.  All  this  is 
slow  up-hill  work,  and  gives  one  the  impression 
that  the  whole  barn-yard  is  being  moved  on  the 

5, 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

American  plan  of  moving  buildings.  Finally,  in 
November  1908,  all  the  Paris  papers  are  deluged 
with  notes  and  announcements  regarding  the  play, 
the  actors,  and  even  the  rehearsals,  which  are  said 
to  be  in  full  progress.  Two  months  later,  the  great 
Coquelin,  who  was  to  play  the  role  of  Chantecler, 
is  taken  sick.  He  is  forced  to  leave  Paris.  This 
was  on  the  loth  of  January,  1909.  On  the  2yth  of 
January,  Coquelin  was  dead. 

Then  followed  two  months  of  search  after  the 
actor  who  should  adequately  assume  the  crushing 
leading  role  of  the  play.  Not  a  day  passed  with- 
out bringing  its  share  of  contradictory  statements 
and  more  or  less  nerve-racking  incidents  with  re- 
gard to  this  matter.  Finally,  after  many  names 
had  been  mentioned  in  connection  with  the  leading 
role,  M.  Guitry  was  engaged  for  the  part  on  the 
8th  of  March,  1909,  and  the  rest,  says  M.  Claude 
Mill,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  the  above  notes, 
is  contemporary  history.  Indeed  this  contem- 
porary history  brings  us  to  the  flood, — the  Paris 
flood,  when  the  play  had  to  be  postponed  still  fur- 
ther. One  can  easily  understand  the  suspense,  the 
curiosity,  the  impatience  that  awaited  the  opening 

6 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

night, — an  opening  night  which  remains  the  most 
memorable  in  the  history  of  the  French  stage  dur- 
ing the  nineteenth  and  twentieth  centuries,  if  not 
of  all  times,  unless  it  be  the  opening  night  of 
Beaumarchais'  Manage  de  Figaro,  which  is  the 
only  first  performance  that  can  be  compared 
to  it. 

And  the  world  knew  not  only  that  Chantecler 
had  at  last  been  played,  but  that  Chantecler  was 
the  best  advertised  proposition  that  had  ever  come 
on  the  boards.  All  kinds  of  insinuations  were 
generously  made.  The  delay,  it  was  said,  was  to 
be  attributed  to  a  desire  on  the  part  of  those  most 
interested  to  keep  expectancy  at  a  white  heat.  A 
careful  reading  of  the  play,  however,  is  sure  to 
lead  one  to  the  conclusion  that  the  difficulties  in 
so  handling  the  theme  as  to  make  of  it  a  playable 
play,  must  have  been  mainly  responsible  for  the 
delay.  These  difficulties,  indeed,  must  have  been 
such  as  to  seem  at  times  almost  insurmountable. 
Rostand  himself  confessed  this  much  when  inter- 
viewed with  regard  to  his  work.  And  here  it  is 
well  to  give  more  at  length  the  author's  own  state- 
ments as  to  his  play. 

7 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

During  the  last  days  of  the  year  1902  (this 
does  not  quite  tally  with  M.  Mill's  dates),  the 
elder  Coquelin,  who  was  preparing  to  visit  the 
States,  received  in  Paris  a  telegram  signed  by  Ros- 
tand in  which  he  was  asked  to  come  immediately  to 
Cambo  to  talk  over  a  new  play.  Coquelin  at  once 
buckled  his  valise  and  boarded  the  Sud-Express. 
One  can  imagine  Coquelin's  surprise  when  he  was 
told  smilingly  that  the  scene  of  the  play  would  be 
a  farm-yard,  that  all  the  characters  would  represent 
animals,  and  that  he,  Coquelin,  was  to  choose  the 
role  of  the  cock. 

"  Is  that  serious?  "  asked  Coquelin. 

"  Very  serious,  indeed,"  affirmed  Rostand,  this 
time  without  laughing. 

"  And  how  did  that  idea  ever  come  to  you?  " 

"  As  I  was  taking  a  walk.  A  few  weeks  ago  a 
chance  ramble  led  me  to  a  small  neighboring  farm. 
I  entered  the  yard  to  ask  for  a  cup  of  milk;  and 
there  I  saw  a  spectacle  that  struck  me.  Amongst 
heaps  of  hay,  and  a  solitary  cart,  its  shafts 
pointing  to  the  sky,  a  number  of  animals  were  play- 
ing, free  and  gladsome,  like  laborers  returned  to 
their  lodging,  the  day's  work  being  ended.  Before 

8 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

me  were  chickens,  ducks,  a  cat,  a  dog,  a  turkey, 
which  seemed  to  chirp  and  chatter  and  tell  the 
latest  gossip  of  the  day.  Against  the  wall,  in  a 
cage,  a  black-bird  from  time  to  time  emitted  a 
cry  as  though  he  were  jeering  at  somebody;  you 
would  have  thought  that  he  was  punning.  A  cock 
entered,  haughty,  erect,  superb,  and,  of  a  sudden, 
all  private  conversation  ceased.  He  crossed  the 
yard,  dignified,  somewhat  theatrical,  without  haste, 
like  a  tenor  with  an  eye  to  effect.  Suddenly  he 
became  the  center  of  attention.  The  dog  played 
about  him  amicably,  the  duck  in  fear  got  out  of 
his  way,  the  black-bird  was  silenced,  the  hens  ad- 
vanced, submissive  and  affectionate.  All  this  little 
world  acknowledged  his  superiority,  greeted  him 
as  a  hero.  And  why,  after  all,  should  he  not  be 
a  hero,  and  even  a  hero  of  drama?  This  idea 
crossed  my  mind.  ...  In  short,  replace  this 
cock,  this  dog,  this  black-bird,  this  duck,  these 
hens,  by  men  and  women,  you  have  characters 
of  the  stage,  passions  of  the  stage,  a  scene  that 
can  be  staged.  Then,  since  the  play  could  be  pos- 
sible with  men  and  women,  why  not  keep  what  is 
picturesque  in  it,  by  making  these  animals,  at  bot- 

9 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

torn  so  little  different  from  us,  act,  think,  and 
speak  like  human  beings?  " 

Coquelin  was  somewhat  disturbed.  An  hour 
later  he  was  won  over.  The  poet  had  read  to  him 
passages  from  his  work,  of  which  nearly  five  hun- 
dred lines  were  already  written.  Rostand  had 
given  him  a  general  outline  of  the  play.  Coquelin 
enthusiastically  exclaimed  that  he  would  be  Chan- 
tecler. 

But  this  was  not  enough.  Why,  having  to  ex- 
press human  feelings,  did  he  not  put  in  action  men 
and  women?  For  the  thorough  understanding 
and  appreciation  of  the  play  Rostand's  answer  to 
this  is  important.  "  Because,"  he  answered,  "  I 
wished  to  write  a  modern  play  in  verse.  Now  the 
lyrical  qualities  of  a  poetic  production  do  not  go 
well  with  the  modern  suit  and  the  common-place 
frock-coat.  It  needs  the  additional  costume.  One 
must  turn  back  for  this  to  two  or  three  centuries, 
at  least,  or  be  obliged  to  set  the  play  in  countries 
of  which  the  customs,  the  language,  and  interests 
are  very  far  from  our  own.  But  a  poet  may  have 
the  desire  to  express  modern  ideas  with  a  modern 
vocabulary,  to  allude  to  happenings  of  the  day  the 

10 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

most  Parisian,  to  laugh  as  one  laughs  on  the  boule- 
vard in  1910,  and  to  think  as  one  thinks  in  France 
in  the  twentieth  century.  A  problem  difficult  to 
solve!  The  sight  of  my  barn-yard  at  Cambo  im- 
mediately offered  me  a  solution.  Why,  here  was 
the  costume  dreamt  of, — if  one  can  say  so ! — there 
indeed  was  the  means  of  remaining  modern,  and 
at  the  same  time  that  of  being  picturesque  and 
lyrical !  Characters  garbed  in  animal  dress,  ex- 
pressing themselves  like  human  beings, — like 
Parisians  of  the  day.  What  a  find !  And,  further- 
more, what  an  opportunity  to  speak  of  things  in 
nature,  to  be  deeply  moved  by  flowers,  birds,  the 
bits  of  grass,  or  the  insect  .  .  .  and  what  a 
setting!  .  .  .  No,  really,  a  poet  could  not  wish 
for  a  more  beautiful  theme." 

The  subject-matter,  therefore,  strange  and  sen- 
sational as  it  may  seem,  was  chosen  first  and  fore- 
most because  it  lent  itself  to  a  treatment  of  the  life, 
the  thoughts,  and  aspirations  of  the  day,  while  it 
gave  full  scope  to  the  poetic  fancy,  pleasing  the 
eye  with  varied  color  of  dress  and  landscapes, 
pleasing  the  ear  with  musical  lines  now  sweet  and 
soft  when  the  Nightingale  sings,  now  resounding 

II 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

like  a  trumpet  blast  when  Chantecler  calls  on  the 
sun  to  rise.  Rostand's  verse  does  indeed  sway  and 
toss  and  lull  and  sing  in  a  way  that  was  never  at- 
tempted before  in  the  drama  of  France  or  else- 
where. In  the  opening  prologue  to  the  play  there 
is  a  double  reference  to  La  Fontaine  and  to 
Beethoven.  One  can  imagine  that  the  shades  of 
La  Fontaine  and  Beethoven  were  ever  present  be- 
fore the  poet's  mind  as  he  made  the  animals  dear 
to  La  Fontaine  pass  before  him,  and  this  to 
rhythmical  numbers  of  which  music  alone  can  give 
an  idea,  music  the  most  varied  as  coming  from  the 
most  moody  and  passionate  of  singers. 

But  was  there  to  be  any  meaning,  any  symbol- 
ism in  the  use  of  these  animal  characters?  To 
this  Rostand  answered  that  Chantecler  was  to  be 
the  drama  of  human  endeavor  grappling  with  life. 
The  Cock  represents  man  loving  passionately  his 
chosen  vocation,  man  who  has  faith  in  his  work, 
and  who  will  allow  nothing  to  sway  him  in  its  ac- 
complishment. He  meets  the  Pheasant,  represent- 
ing woman,  the  modern  woman:  emancipated,  in- 
dependent, domineering;  jealous  of  the  male's  high 
task;  who  means  to  enslave  him  to  her  sole  aftec- 

12 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

tion;  and  who  yields  only  after  she  has  been  over- 
come, brought  to  submission,  with,  perhaps,  the 
secret  hope  that  she  may  still  some  day  hold  sway 
over  him  and  thus  be  avenged.  We  have  here  the 
eternal  struggle  that  opens  with  the  Book  of 
Genesis,  the  struggle  to  reach  some  compromise  by 
which  man  and  woman  are  to  be  made  cognizant 
of  their  respective  places,  accept  the  station  in  life 
imposed  upon  them  by  virtue  of  some  yet  un- 
recognized, but  none  the  less  stringent,  restrictions 
in  their  natures.  On  the  one  hand  we  have  the 
will  to  do,  untrammeled  by  physical  and  social 
limitations  on  which  nevertheless  hangs  the  very 
existence  of  the  race;  on  the  other  hand,  the  will 
to  be,  for  the  purpose  that  transcends  man's  very 
dream.  And  it  is  because  this  passiveness  de- 
manded of  woman,  and  through  which  her  power 
for  good  over  man  seems  doubled  a  hundredfold, 
arouses  in  this  day  opposition  so  fierce  as  to  en- 
danger the  very  life  of  the  family,  the  poet  thought 
it  well  to  sound  a  note  of  warning.  Chantecler 
and  the  Pheasant  are  the  will  and  the  feelings 
at  war  with  each  other.  The  will  and  the  affec- 
tions are  at  war  in  the  breast  of  each  one  of  us. 

13 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

This  is  best  exemplified,  however,  because  of 
physical  and  consequently  social  reasons,  in  a  strug- 
gle between  the  sexes. 

The  Dog  in  the  play,  Rostand  went  on  to  say, 
was  the  philosopher:  kindly,  and  ever  ready  to  do 
service.  The  Black-bird  was  the  "  boulevardier," 
truly  Parisian;  he  turns  all  things  into  a  joke;  he 
puns,  he  jeers,  rails,  and  scoffs.  The  noblest, 
purest  ideals  pass  as  little  unscathed  by  his  taunts 
as  does  the  Nightingale  when  harassed  by  the 
taunts  of  the  ugly  Toads  foaming  at  the  mouth. 
The  Guinea-fowl  is  the  busy-body,  the  rattle- 
brained parvenu,  snobbish  to  a  degree.  Her  doors 
are  opened  wide  to  receive  the  strangest  medley  of 
people  from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  but  her 
inflated  pride  sets  itself  up  like  a  scare-crow  to 
keep  away  the  smaller  birds  shorn  of  all  conse- 
quence, the  poor  relations  whose  presence  fits  so 
ill  in  a  high  Salon.  There  are  also  Birds  of  Night 
in  the  play;  they  represent  the  envious  hatred  of 
all  that  is  clean  and  loves  the  light. 

The  enumeration  of  all  these  characters  in  the 
play  already  points  to  a  philosophy  which,  for  an 
artist,  should  also  be  a  philosophy  of  life.  It  is 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

here  a  defiance  hurled  against  all  ostentation,  an 
appeal  to  reason  and  to  duty,  a  realization  of  the 
fact  that  life's  work  on  the  most  humble  scale 
looms  large  where  love  and  self-sacrifice  go  hand 
in  hand;  that  man,  beast,  sun,  and  trees,  have  an 
appointed  task  in  the  world,  to  shirk  which  is 
darkness  and  chaos.  One  is  reminded  of  the  noble 
exhortation  in  Matthew:  "  Let  your  light  so  shine 
before  men,  that  they  may  see  your  good  works, 
and  glorify  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven." 

And  now,  after  having  given  an  exposition  of 
Rostand's  intentions  as  expressed  by  him  and 
evidenced  by  a  study  of  the  play  itself,  it  may  be 
asked  to  what  extent  has  the  poet  been  successful 
in  producing  a  play  that  is  coherent,  playable,  and 
artistic  as  a  whole?  Rostand  is  a  poet;  he  needed 
a  subject  that  lent  itself  to  poetic  treatment,  that 
gave  full  scope  for  picturesque  effects  in  the  setting, 
that  could  fill  the  eye  with  beauty  of  color  as  well 
as  the  ear  with  beauty  of  song.  It  is  significant 
that  Shakespeare  has  not  given  us  a  single  play 
presenting  men  and  women  in  the  London  of  his 
own  day.  He  has  gone  to  the  past  or  to  Italy, 
or  to  Bohemia,  Denmark,  France,  Greece,  Vienna, 

15 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

but  not  to  the  London  of  his  day,  nor  to  Spain. 
Distance  in  poetry  evidently  does  lend  enchantment, 
except  where  traditional  or  present  hatred  exists 
against  a  given  nation,  as  was,  in  the  time  of 
Shakespeare,  the  case  of  the  English  against  Spain. 
Under  these  conditions  direct  contemporary  social 
satire  is  well-nigh  out  of  the  question  in  the  poetic 
drama.  The  use  of  the  animals  in  Chanteder 
made  this  possible;  it  allowed  both  for  social  satire, 
and  a  display  of  the  gaudy  feathered  tribe  in  pic- 
turesque, poetic  scenes.  Amongst  the  many  con- 
ventionalities that  the  theater-going  public  accepts 
at  all  times,  the  poet  was  to  render  acceptable  one 
that  had  not  seen  the  boards  for  many  a  year, 
although  it  had  had  the  sanction  of  antiquity,  in- 
deed of  no  less  a  poet  than  Aristophanes.  In  the 
midst  of  the  most  cultured  and  most  aesthetic  com- 
munity the  world  has  ever  seen,  Aristophanes,  for 
the  purpose  of  presenting  social  satire,  had  written 
such  plays  as  the  Birds,  the  Clouds,  the  Frogs; 
there  was  no  reason  why  the  same  could  not  be 
done  in  our  own  day,  and  why  the  play  could  not 
be  called  Chanteder,  after  the  name  of  the  cock  in 
the  animal  epic  of  mediaeval  days. 

16 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

The  difficulty  was  to  forestall  curiosity,  to  pre- 
pare the  minds  of  the  hearers  to  receive  what  was 
said  by  the  new  and  strange  gathering  on  the  stage. 
For  this  purpose,  Rostand  introduced  a  prologue 
to  create  an  atmosphere  in  a  way  that  had  never 
been  used  before.  The  audience  would  be  expec- 
tant, it  would  be  curious  to  see  what  was  on  the 
stage;  but  why  not  have  this  audience  create  the 
scene  in  imagination  before  the  curtain  rose?  A 
good  deal  was  to  be  taken  for  granted,  and  why 
could  not  the  public  be  made  to  co-operate  with 
the  poet  from  the  start?  They  were  to  imagine 
the  farm;  imagine  also  the  farmer,  his  family,  and 
the  farm  hands  leaving  the  premises  for  a  Sunday's 
outing.  They  could  be  made  to  hear  the  horse 
jogging  away,  hear  the  clatter  of  hoofs  die  in  the 
distance,  down  the  valley,  from  where  the  human 
voices  rose  fainter  and  fainter.  And  in  the  silence 
there  arose  new  sounds;  the  flap  of  wings,  the 
sharp  rap  of  beaks  and  of  clawed  feet,  and  Na- 
ture was  felt  stealthily  entering  in  one's  dream. 
The  manager  of  the  play  was  to  be  the  cuckoo- 
bird.  Hushed  in  silence,  you  saw  the  curtain 
slowly  upward  go,  and  you  could  well  think  that 

17 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

the  wood-pecker's  knocks  had  begun  this  show. 

From  all  accounts  nothing  could  have  been  more 
ingenious,  more  subtle,  and  more  exquisite,  than 
the  lines  of  the  prologue,  delivered  before  the 
footlights  prior  to  raising  the  curtain, — even 
though  they  were  delivered  by  a  gentleman  in 
black,  much  to  the  chagrin  of  the  critics,  who 
somehow  wanted  the  lines  without  the  man,  or, 
to  be  more  exact,  the  man,  if  needs  be,  but  wearing 
more  picturesque  clothes.  The  audience,  after  the 
curtain  went  up,  when  the  scene  gradually  came  to 
view,  could  sit  back  and  nod  approvingly  at  what 
their  imagination  had  already  been  led  to 
evolve.  They  could  forget  themselves  and  allow 
their  fancy  to  roam  pleasantly  amid  the  quiet, 
familiar  scene  as  Rostand  had  seen  it,  on  the 
memorable  day  when  after  a  long  ramble  he  en- 
tered the  farm-yard  near  Cambo  and  stood  sur- 
prised at  the  sight  of  the  picturesque  world  before 
him  of  hens,  ducks,  pompous  turkey-cocks,  the 
pert  black-bird,  the  watch-dog,  and  the  sly  soft- 
treading  cat,  never  so  awake  as  when  basking  in 
the  sun  seemingly  half  asleep. 

And  now  the  audience  is  ready  to  take  its  time 
18 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

to  hear  what  this  little  world  has  to  say.  We  learn 
their  little  likes  and  dislikes.  They  have  their 
trouble-maker,  and  their  weighty,  pedantic  Turkey, 
thoroughly  satisfied  with  himself  as  he  passes  judg- 
ment or  gives  his  lesson.  The  Pigeon  is  the  mail- 
carrier,  inquisitive,  and  wrought  up  to  a  degree 
in  his  desire  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  great  Chan- 
tecler.  A  large  butterfly-net  suddenly  thrust  from 
over  the  wall  has  barely  missed  a  fine  flower  on  the 
wing.  Man  in  the  play  is  never  seen.  From  time 
to  time  we  are  made  aware  that  he  is  back  of  this 
world  like  cruel  fate,  bringing  death  and  destruc- 
tion at  any  moment. 

Of  a  sudden  a  long  deep  note  is  heard.  The 
Black-bird  is  sure  that  when  Chantecler  advances 
and  cries  out  thus,  it  is  a  sign  that  he  loves  or 
meditates  a  song.  And  the  song  indeed  breaks  out 
in  ecstasy,  triumphant.  It  is  his  song  to  the  Sun 
and  such  as  a  Greek  of  old  would  have  sung  to 
Apollo;  a  psean  to  the  god  whose  vivifying  in- 
fluence in  the  world  about  us  is  everywhere  felt 
and  seen,  for  he  brings  to  all  that  love  the  light 
rich  gifts  of  health  and  of  beauty.  His  rays  play 
the  magician  with  earth  and  trees.  He  tips  with 

19 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

the  splendor  of  gold  and  of  precious  stones,  alike 
the  grain  and  the  dew,  the  hive  of  the  bee  and  the 
soap  bubbles  in  the  rustic  vat.  The  song  thus 
goes  on,  the  Black-bird  may  scoff,  the  Turkey 
find  fault,  the  rest  go  about  picking  nurture  for 
the  life  they  bear  within  them,  Chantecler  has 
not  yet  finished  his  whole  tribute  to  the  life-giver 
of  all,  and  finally,  when  he  has  done  so,  he  finds 
pleasure  in  the  fact  that  he  has  satisfied  the  ardor 
of  the  smaller  visitor  to  the  farm,  the  humble 
mail-carrier,  who  shall  long  remember  and  often 
repeat  what  he  has  seen  and  heard. 

After  his  song  to  the  Sun  is  ended,  Chantecler, 
unlike  the  oriental  mystic  satisfied  with  mere  con- 
templation, will  add  good  works  to  his  good  song. 
He  looks  about  him,  gives  counsel,  sees  to  the  wel- 
fare of  all,  and  then  turns  to  sing  again,  happy  and 
contented  in  his  lot.  The  good  Patou,  the  philo- 
sophic Watch-dog,  has  it  as  his  duty  to  put  people 
on  their  guard.  Optimism  is,  to  be  sure,  the  meet 
attribute  of  the  lover  of  Light,  but  one  must  not 
be  blinded  by  optimism.  True  strength  is  that 
of  the  good  who  know  and  shun  evil.  Exuber- 
ance that  makes  one  ignore  the  dark  recesses  of  the 

20 


THE    HEN    PHEASANT 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

soul,  is  beset  with  pitfalls  and  is  akin  to  weakness. 
Chantecler,  the  optimist,  slow  to  be  convinced  of 
evil  and  to  whom,  above  all  others,  some  degree 
of  watchfulness  is  necessary,  needs  to  beware  of 
the  miry  depths  in  the  soul  of  the  jeering  Black- 
bird. He  must  also  keep  good  watch  over  his 
heart.  He  will  not  stoop  to  go  to  the  feather- 
brained, cold-hearted,  fidgety  Guinea-fowl, — to 
her  five  o'clock  tea — but  what  if  his  heart  were  to 
get  the  better  of  his  reason  and  he  follow  blindly 
because  love  bids  him  go? 

It  has  often  been  remarked  that  none  of  Ros- 
tand's plays  are  exclusively  devoted  to  the  develop- 
ment of  a  love-theme.  Roxane  does  not  love 
Cyrano,  and  many  a  scene  in  Cyrano  de  Bergerac 
has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  love.  So  in 
Chantecler  we  find  the  love  theme  introduced  not 
as  an  end  unto  itself;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  rather 
shown  as  the  great  hindrance.  Let  the  Pheasant 
come  and  Chantecler  will  have  to  decide,  and  the 
Pheasant  will  have  to  decide  with  him,  that  the 
high  song  must  go  first.  Love  is  essentially  selfish, 
at  least  so  is  the  love  that  does  not  expand  heart 
and  brain  and  make  one's  being  go  out  to  a  larger 

21 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

world  than  self.  We  all  remember  the  pitiful 
story  in  Browning's  Andrea  del  Sarto;  the  des- 
perate efforts  of  the  painter  to  make  Lucrezia  share 
in  his  ambition,  spur  him  on :  "  We  might  have 
risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you !  "  Then  follows  the 
dejected  ending  of  poor  Andrea,  weak  and  drag- 
ging his  love-chain : 

"  I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it? 

What  would  one  have? 
In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance. 

So— still  they  overcome 
Because  there's  still  Lucrezia, — as  I  choose." 

The  burden  of  Rostand's  theme  is  that  Chan- 
feeler's  choice  must  be  other:  it  must  be  first  and 
foremost  his  high  vocation,  and  where  this  must 
take  second  place  it  becomes  then  a  choice  between 
the  ideal  of  the  East  and  the  ideal  of  the  West, 
and  we  begin  over  again  the  struggle  that  made 
Greece  turn  against  Troy.  The  Pheasant  and 

22 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

Chantecler  are  thus  made  symbols  of  contrasting 
civilizations.  She  might  have  come  from  Colchis 
with  Jason  for  all  she  knows. 

And  there  is  something  of  a  Delilah  in  her  too. 
Chantecler's  strength  and  pride  come  from  his  be- 
lief that  at  his  bidding  the  morning  light  springs 
from  the  Eastern  heaven.  It  is  a  visionary's  be- 
lief, as  though  man  by  pulling  at  his  own  coat- 
sleeve  could  wing  his  upward  way.  How  easy  it 
is  to  deride  and  shake  it !  Such  a  belief,  when  it 
ennobles  life  and  one's  calling,  becomes  sacred,  and 
must  be  kept  to  oneself,  lest  in  opening  too  freely 
one's  heart  the  Black-bird's  jeers  may  reach  the 
soul  and  chill  it.  But  the  Pheasant  will  see  to  it 
that  there  be  no  secret  hidden  from  her.  It  is 
night,  all  the  Birds  of  darkness  are  conspiring  to 
do  away  with  the  harbinger  of  Light.  The  Owl 
hails  night  that  favors  murder.  The  Screech-owl, 
and  the  Horn-owl,  and  the  Wood-owl,  and  all  that 
represent  evil  deeds  done  in  darkness,  take  up  the 
dirge,  all  hymning  the  song  of  death.  Their  cry 
brings  to  mind  the  hoarse  croaking  of  the  raven 
in  Macbeth,  and  the  fearful  lines  presaging 
murder : 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

*'  Now  o'er  the  one  half-world 
Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtain  sleep ;  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hecate's  offerings;  and  wither'd  murder, 
Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 
Whose  howl's  his  watch,  thus  with  stealthy  pace, 
With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  towards  his  design 
Moves  like  a  ghost." 

No  sooner  is  Chantecler's  first  morning  note 
heard,  when  darkness  and  its  minions  are  struck 
with  awe,  and  they  waver.  Light  is  soon  to  come. 
Their  eyes  and  understanding  cannot  bear  it. 
There  is  a  tumbling  rush  all  helter-skelter,  and 
soon  they  disappear  in  search  of  the  dark  hole. 

There  is  nothing  more  beautiful  in  its  fine  sym- 
bolism than  this  second  act.  The  Pheasant  is  here 
with  Chanteder  and  is  bent  on  knowing  his  secret. 
She  cajoles  and  pleads  and  pouts  till  Chantecler 
finally  yields,  seized  in  part  by  the  desire  to  make 
her  a  partner  to  his  mission. 

He  tells  her  how  he  begins  to  sing  only  after 
he  has  swept  away  the  grass  and  the  pebbles  that 
hide  the  sweet,  dark  soil  beneath.  His  strong 

24 


claws  come  thus  in  close  contact  with  the  good 
earth ;  and  it  is  half  the  mystery  of  his  song,  half  the 
secret  of  his  strength,  this  clinging  to  his  native 
soil  whence  come  to  him  his  strength  and  his  song 
even  as  a  sap. 

The  song  here  is  poured  out  in  torrents.  It  goes 
far  to  show  to  what  extent  Rostand's  verse  comes 
near  to  having  the  qualities  of  modern  music.  It 
is  so  rich  in  volume,  and  holds  us  so  long  under  its 
spell,  that  its  extended  appeal  becomes  griping  and 
is  at  times  almost  unbearable.  It  has  all  the 
qualities,  we  say,  it  has  also,  in  our  opinion,  all 
the  defects  of  the  mighty  climax  in  operas  such  as 
Tristan  and  Isolde.  We  cannot  help  but  feel  that 
to  produce  such  parts  the  composers  have  lashed 
themselves  into  a  frenzy,  and  we  are  not  quite  cer- 
tain whether  this  frenzy  is  not  a  sign  of  weakness, 
or,  perhaps,  and  let  us  hope  that  this  is  so,  if  the 
appeal  is  made  so  strong,  the  reason  is,  not  that 
we  are  more  obtuse  but  that  we  are  graced  with 
nerves  stronger  and  less  liable  to  be  shattered  than 
were  the  nerves  of  our  forefathers  in  the  days  of 
Mozart  and  of  Haydn. 

Chantecler's  song,  such  as  it  is,  is  none  the  less 

25 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

lofty  and  magnificent.  The  Pheasant,  spell-bound, 
listens  breathlessly,  admiring  and  finding  but  his 
name  in  answer  to  it.  Chantecler  calls  upon  the 
East  to  obey,  for  he  is  the  Earth  and  he  is  Labor, 
and  his  crest  has  the  design  couched  on  the  smithy's 
forge;  he  feels  earth's  rich  furrow  rising  in  his 
throat. 

The  Pheasant  amazed  looks  on.  She  does  not 
understand.  It  has  transformed  him.  He  seems 
mad.  He  falls  back  exhausted,  and  she  takes  up 
the  song;  and  as  she  tells  what  she  sees  while  the 
dawn  brings  things  more  and  more  clearly  to  view, 
Chantecler  nods  and  calls  these  by  name.  Since 
rich  love  on  that  day  is  joined  to  his  faith,  the  day 
has  become,  indeed,  more  beautiful  than  day.  The 
sun  is  now  risen.  In  the  distance,  shrill  cries  are 
heard.  It  is  the  other  cocks.  They  sing  when 
all  is  rosy.  They  believe  in  Light,  but  not  sooner 
than  when  they  can  see  it.  Chantecler  sang  when 
all  was  dark.  His  song  rose  midst  the  shadows, 
and  the  first,  "  It  is  in  darkness  that  belief  in  Light 
is  best." 

A  great  scene  like  this  scarcely  needs  any  fur- 
ther comment.  The  Pheasant  now  believes  in 

26 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

Chantecler.  She  is  proud  of  his  achievement. 
But  for  how  long?  For  as  long,  thinks  Rostand, 
as  Chantecler  does  not  yield  one  iota  of  that  which 
makes  him  great.  Will  Chantecler,  then,  go  to 
the  Guinea-fowl's  party?  The  Pheasant  has  been 
invited.  The  Black-bird  has  seen  to  it  that  she 
should  be  invited,  in  order  that  he  may  have  the 
opportunity  of  jeering  at  Chantecler  in  case  he 
should  follow  her.  When  the  hen  of  Houdan 
asked  Chantecler  whether  he  would  go,  he  answered 
"  No."  The  Pheasant  looking  up  to  him  from  the 
bottom  rung  of  a  ladder  said,  "  Yes."  Chantecler, 
perplexed,  asked,  "  Why  so?  "  "  Because  you  said 
to  the  other,  *  No,'  "  was  the  Pheasant's  reply. 
The  philosophic  Patou,  made  aware  that  Chan- 
tecler was  about  to  yield,  immediately  interfered, 
for  Chantecler  would,  indeed,  have  his  fill,  were  he 
to  yield. 

After  the  magnificent  song  to  the  sun  has  come 
to  an  end,  the  Black-bird  appears  to  remind  the 
Pheasant  of  the  five  o'clock  party.  He  has  also 
overheard  the  great  secret.  He  has  a  knowing 
wink  in  his  eye.  What  a  clever  piece  of  Don 
Juanism  that  song  was,  he  says.  The  Pheasant  is 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

embarrassed.  She  is  becoming  self-centered  again. 
The  Black-bird  has  brought  her  once  more  down 
to  earth.  She  determines  to  leave  him  with  Chan- 
tecler.  When  Chantecler  asks  her  where  she  is 
going,  the  Black-bird,  quick  to  perceive  her  em- 
barrassment at  the  frivolous  change  in  her,  jeers 
and  explains.  She  is  none  the  less  still  under  the 
spell  of  Chantecler's  noble  song,  and,  seeing  how 
high  he  has  soared,  she  will  excuse  him  from  ac- 
companying her.  She  has  not  the  courage  to  allow 
herself  to  fall  in  with  Chantecler's  melancholy 
mood,  for  the  Black-bird  is  near  and  she  fears  a 
Black-bird's  ridicule.  She  flips  the  matter  off  her 
mind  with  merry  off-hand  answers:  She  will  soon 
be  back;  he  may  stay;  she  must  go;  she  must  show 
his  sunshine  on  her  dress.  And  so  the  robe  of  sun- 
shine on  her  soul  has  slipped  off  to  give  place  to 
the  variegated  mantle  that  held  all  her  attention 
and  wrapped  the  worldly  minded  coquette. 

The  heart  soon  finds  a  reason  to  paralyze  the 
will.  The  Black-bird  warns  Chantecler  that  there 
is  trouble  in  store  for  him  at  the  Guinea-fowl's. 
Chantecler,  exasperated,  dares  to  go.  One  can 
easily  conjecture  that  any  other  bad  reason  would 

28 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

have  proved  fully  as  good  to  draw  him  to  where 
the  Pheasant  has  gone.  This  brings  us  to  the  third 
act  of  the  play:  The  Reception  Day  at  the 
Guinea-fowl's,  as  Rostand  calls  it;  just  as  the  first 
act  is  significantly  entitled,  The  Evening  of  the 
Pheasant,  because  of  her  coming  to  the  farm  so 
foreign  to  her  tastes.  We  cannot  imagine  more 
lashing  sarcasm — one  cannot  even  call  it  satire — 
than  is  poured  in  this  third  act  on  all  that  is  super- 
ficial, bloated  with  vain-glory,  empty  of  all  gen- 
erous impulse,  devoid  of  feeling,  real  dignity,  and 
grace.  One  can  excuse  this  act  on  the  ground  that 
the  poet  has  willed  what  he  did.  The  very  theme 
of  Chantecler  had  been  chosen  because  it  could 
lead  up  to  it. 

In  this  third  act,  therefore,  one  is  more  especially 
impressed  with  the  great  contrast  presented  in  the 
life  of  Chantecler  as  compared  with  the  life  he 
led  before.  It  is  possible  that  when  the  his- 
torian in  the  years  to  come  shall  look  for  a  picture 
of  that  which  lent  itself  to  ridicule  in  our  day,  he 
will  turn  to  this  act  of  Chantecler,  even  as  we  must 
look  to  the  Misanthrope  for  a  corresponding  pic- 
ture of  much  that  lay  open  to  ridicule  in  the  days 

29 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

of  Moliere.  Rostand's  first  attack  is  directed 
against  ostentation,  where  the  beautiful  parlors,  the 
marvelous  collections  of  bric-a-brac,  the  palm 
leaves  and  the  hidden  orchestras,  the  invited  guests 
and  the  ushers,  serve  but  as  a  means  for  vulgar 
display  of  self,  are  but  a  mode  of  advertising 
self.  The  Guinea-fowl  has  constantly  at  her  beak's 
end  an  "  I  did  it,"  "  I  have  it,"  "  I  thought  of  it." 
Beautiful  parlors,  marvelous  collections,  musicians, 
invited  guests,  palm  leaves  and  all,  could  be  heaped 
like  a  haystack  for  all  she  cares.  She  would  crawl 
to  the  top  of  them  to  show  her  large  ego. 

The  second  attack  is  directed  against  the  pomp- 
ous Peacock.  He  represents  another  form  of 
fatuity.  His  is  not  so  much  the  vulgar  ostentation 
of  what  money  can  do  and  buy,  as  the  desire  to 
dazzle  by  a  display  of  his  learning.  Our  Pea- 
cock is  sententious.  He  delivers  himself  in  tones 
loud  and  discordant.  His  very  voice  betrays  his 
insincerity.  He  speaks  of  Ruskin  in  sentences  rich 
in  alliteration.  Were  he  to  fail  in  his  efforts  to 
impress  the  by-standers  with  the  vast  powers  of  his 
intellect,  he  would  bring  before  them  as  a  strong 
argument  the  sturdy  display  of  his  rich  train. 

30 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

Another  phase  of  modern  life  covered  with 
ridicule  in  the  play,  is  indiscriminate  cosmopolitan- 
ism. These  are  the  days  of  travel,  when  so 
many  people  are  strangers  to  their  own  land. 
There  are  forty-eight  varieties  of  Cocks  gathered 
round  the  Guinea-fowl.  Who  can  tell  how  many 
different  nationalities  go  to  make  up  a  reunion  in 
a  modern  Parisian  five  o'clock  tea?  This  is  not 
the  place  to  find  fault  with  Rostand  for  his  being 
too  exclusive  a  Frenchman,  but  it  is  difficult  not 
to  turn  with  regret  to  a  past  when  people  were 
more  "  stay-at-homes," — each  one  in  his  own  home, 
in  the  English  and  best  sense  of  the  word. 
Granted  then  that  here  is  a  lesson  given  to  French- 
men only,  Rostand  may  well  ask  whether  the  Cock 
— the  Gallic  Cock — has  a  place  in  the  midst  of  the 
strange  medley  that  surrounds  the  strutting  Pea- 
cock and  the  giddy  Guinea-fowl.  Chantecler  must 
needs  have  company,  but  Rostand  would  have  him 
dispense  with  the  company  he  now  finds  himself  in. 
The  Cock  loses  his  temper.  He  is  about  to  spoil 
the  all-absorbing  five  o'clock  tea.  He  gives  his 
lesson  to  the  assembly  and  in  doing  so  he  is,  per- 
haps, all  the  more  bitter  because  of  the  unacknowl- 

3' 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

edged  grudge  he  bears  against  them  on  the  ground 
that  they  attract  the  Pheasant  to  them  and  spoil 
her.  He  waxes  eloquent,  and,  moreover,  he  creates 
a  sensation.  An  interview  in  behalf  of  the  jour- 
nals is  therefore  clearly  indicated. 

You  are  amused  by  this  introduction  of 
newspaper  reporters  in  the  play,  for  within  the 
past  few  months,  and  in  order  to  satisfy  the  curios- 
ity of  the  public,  Rostand's  whole  life  has  been 
turned  inside  out  like  a  pocket.  When  Chantecler 
explains  that  he  lives  his  life  and  sings  his  song  by 
giving  himself  no  end  of  trouble,  his  interviewers 
pass  this  unnoticed.  They  have  a  more  important 
question  to  ask.  The  important  question  is  this: 
when  Chantecler  emits  his  first  call  to  Day,  on 
what  syllable  does  he  lay  the  stress,  is  it  on  the 
first  "  Co,"  or  the  second  "  co,"  or  is  it  on  the 
"  ri,"  or  perhaps  on  the  final  "  co  "?  Our  Cock 
looks  at  his  interviewers  with  bewilderment;  they 
have  missed  the  kernel  and,  like  the  Guinea-fowl 
and  the  Peacock,  they  have  looked  at  the  husks. 

"  Whence  comes  it/'  we  read  in  Pascal,  "  that 
he  who  limps  does  not  irritate  us,  while  a  halting 
mind  does?  The  reason  is  that  he  who  is  lame  ad- 

32 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

mits  that  we  walk  straight,  while  a  lame  intellect 
asserts  that  it  is  we  who  hobble:  were  it  not  for 
this  we  should  feel  pity  more  than  anger."  But 
woe  betide  the  moralist  who  thinks  he  can  bring 
down  the  lash  with  impunity  on  the  lame  intellects 
in  high  places.  His  attack,  however  open  and  fair, 
will  be  met  with  weapons  against  which  he  will  be 
powerless.  Chantecler  is  the  hot,  impetuous 
idealist.  He  enters  the  fray  ready  to  give  and  to 
receive.  He  finds  as  his  opponent  the  champion 
that  the  Birds  of  Night  have  made  ready  for  him, 
and  this  champion  has  on  his  spurs  sharp,  pointed 
blades  secretly  attached  to  them.  At  every  blow 
that  fells  Chantecler,  the  assembly  stamps  its  feet 
with  joy  and  bursts  out  in  loud  laughter.  The 
Pheasant  alone  grieves  and  endeavors  to  help 
him. 

This  third  act  is  at  times  altogether  too  bitter. 
To  what  extent  is  contemporary  society  really  such 
as  Rostand  here  depicts  it?  Will  this  presentation 
of  it  mar  the  success  of  his  work  when  the  novelty 
of  the  play  will  have  worn  off,  and  if  so,  shall 
we  have  to  give  the  same  explanation  for  the  fail- 
ure of  the  play — if  failure  there  is  to  be — as  could 

33 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

be  given  to  explain  the  failure  of  other  great  plays 
in  the  past,  the  failure  of  the  Misanthrope,  for 
instance?  It  is  indeed  the  greatest  of  puzzles  to 
the  student  of  literature  to  tell  why  such  a  drama 
as  the  Misanthrope  met  with  so  little  success  when 
it  was  first  presented.  Of  all  the  plays  Moliere 
wrote,  the  box  receipts  for  the  Misanthrope  were 
among  the  most  disappointing.  And  yet  there  are 
few  lovers  of  the  stage  who  would  not  give  to 
this  play  of  Moliere  the  very  first  place  among  the 
great  comedies  of  the  past.  The  whole  social 
fabric  of  the  seventeenth  century,  its  essential 
qualities  and  short-comings,  are  revealed  to  pos- 
terity in  that  comedy.  The  reason  for  its  failure 
to  please  at  the  time  may  be  due  to  the  fact  that  to 
the  contemporaries  of  Moliere  the  characters  and 
situations  presented  in  the  Misanthrope  must  have 
been  painfully  real,  so  much  so  that  many  in  the 
audience  thought  they  could  tell  who  the  characters 
were  in  real  life.  But  Moliere's  hearers  went  to 
the  theater  to  find  pleasure,  not  to  blush  and 
be  made  ashamed  of  themselves  and  of  each  other. 
They  wanted  cushions,  not  pins.  Rostand's  third 
act  in  Chantecler  has,  like  the  Misanthrope,  too 

34 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

many  pins.  Fortunately,  however,  Rostand's  best 
asset  as  a  playwright  is  his  keen  feeling  for  dra- 
matic effect,  and  his  power  to  bring  about  such 
sudden  changes  in  a  scene  as  to  sweep  his  hear- 
ers, so  to  speak,  off  their  feet. 

As  an  example  of  Rostand's  power  to  enlarge 
of  a  sudden  our  point  of  view  and  give  new  mean- 
ing to  the  situations  in  his  plays,  let  us  turn  to  the 
end  of  the  third  act  of  the  play  we  are  now  con- 
sidering. Chantecler  is  tottering  under  the  blows 
and  jeers.  Suddenly  there  is  a  lull.  Chantecler  is 
surprised  and  hopes  that  the  good  nature  of  the 
Guinea-fowl's  guests  is  asserting  itself.  A  large 
circling  shadow  about  him  makes  him  look  up,, 
and  there,  above  the  throng,  he  sees  the  ominous 
wheeling  of  the  Sparrow-hawk,  as  the  bird  of  prey 
is  coming  nearer  and  nearer  upon  them.  It  takes 
something  more  than  a  life  of  frivolity  and  cow- 
ardly hiding  of  blades  to  meet  great  calamities 
bravely.  At  this  juncture  all  are  eager  to  flock 
about  Chantecler.  He  is  the  symbol  of  truth  and 
open-mindedness.  It  is  on  him  and  on  him  alone 
that  all  can  rely  in  time  of  danger.  Though  sorely 
tried  by  what  has  gone  before,  he  comes  to  the 

3$ 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

rescue.  The  calamitous  bird  hesitates,  then  re- 
cedes, and  finally,  it  disappears. 

There  is  unmistakable  grandeur  imparted  by 
this  incident  to  Chantecler's  attitude  in  the  midst 
of  the  unthinking  crowd.  It  matters  little  that, 
the  danger  once  passed,  the  throng  should  turn 
again  upon  him.  Chantecler  comes  out  of  the 
trial  all  the  stronger,  and  his  opponent,  staggered 
by  his  sudden  attack,  trips,  and  in  doing  so  there 
happens  to  him  then  what  would  surely  have  hap- 
pened to  him  in  the  long  run:  he  cuts  one  of  his 
own  legs  with  his  own  murderous  knives.  The 
Owl's  predictions  do  not  come  true,  and  Light, 
contrary  to  their  desires,  does  not  stay  long  "  in 
bondage  to  night,  all  affrighted." 

The  Pheasant,  then,  had  come  to  the  quiet,  hum- 
drum, every-day  life  of  us  all  to  trouble  the  senses 
and  the  heart.  Her  gaudy  plumage,  her  rich  ex- 
perience of  strange  lands,  the  romance  of  bo- 
hemianism  about  her,  made  the  lowly  life  seem 
pale  and  dreary  in  comparison.  Chantecler  has 
wooed  and  paid  for  it.  Moments  there  were  when 
the  Pheasant  understood  his  song  and  his  ambi- 
tions. But  she  could  not  live  his  life.  Chantecler 

36 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

has  been  the  weaker  of  the  two.  He  has  followed 
her  to  an  heterogeneous  circle  wholly  foreign  to 
his  aims  and  tastes.  In  rising  against  a  foolish 
set,  given  to  gossip  and  to  showy  ease,  he  has 
learnt  with  bitterness  that  his  place  was  to  be  else- 
where. Repeating  the  story  of  the  Misanthrope, 
this  latest  copy  of  Moliere's  Alceste  will  leave 
everything  behind  him,  follow  the  Pheasant,  flee 
to  the  woods  where  he  does  not  belong,  in  the 
hope  that  with  her  the  roaming  life  will  bring  its 
compensation. 

We  are  now  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  where 
gigantic  trees  have  dug  their  knotted  roots  deep 
into  the  earth.  A  large  spider's  web  is  spread  in 
full  view,  and  there  is  no  mistaking  its  meaning. 
There  is  also  a  snare  hidden  somewhere  on  the 
ground.  Lightning  has  struck  the  base  of  one 
of  the  trees  and  burnt  into  it  a  yawning  black 
chamber.  There  is  a  struggle  going  on  in  the  heart 
of  the  forest  even  as  in  the  jungle  of  society. 
Utopias  are  an  inner  dream,  for  in  our  world  of 
reality  the  loveliest  islands  have  their  Caliban. 

Since  coming  to  the  forest,  Chantecler  has 
yielded  more  and  more  to  the  Pheasant's  bidding. 

37 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

Her  love,  knowing  itself  so  strong,  has  become  im- 
perious; it  has  brooked  no  rivals.  Can  one  imagine 
anything  more  galling  to  the  man  with  a  saving 
sense  of  the  grotesque,  and  who,  in  consequence, 
cannot  long  be  blinded  by  passion,  than  the  thought 
that  he  is  playing  the  coward  with  his  better  self. 
Chantecler  longs  for  his  farm.  In  a  quaint  episode 
he  is  seen  speaking  through  the  wild  morning- 
glory, — the  flower  that  is  bell-shaped  and  opens 
with  the  dawn.  He  is  speaking  through  this 
flower  as  through  a  telephone,  to  the  Black-bird  at 
the  other  end.  How  sweet  is  his  recollection  of 
all  the  little  incidents  that  formerly  filled  his  every- 
day life  with  homely  everyday  cares.  But  no 
sooner  does  the  Pheasant  appear  when  all  conver- 
sation must  immediately  cease  and  some  excuse  be 
found  to  appease  her  anger. 

Chantecler  is  not  allowed  to  sing  now  as  he 
did  in  former  days.  She  must  be  all  in  all  to 
him,  and  one  note,  not  more  than  one,  must 
suffice  as  his  call  to  Day.  He  has  so  greatly  fallen 
in  her  estimation  that  she  sneers  now,  and  is  de- 
termined to  show  him  that  the  sun  can  rise  with- 
out his  call.  The  episodes  that  follow  are  the 

38 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

most  telling  in  the  play.  Chantecler  seems  to  be 
losing  more  and  more  faith  in  himself.  He  needs 
a  prop.  He  needs  somebody  who  believes  in  him. 
He  is  now  ready  to  listen  to  flattery.  The  ugly 
Toads  of  the  forest,  all  mouth  and  all  belly,  with 
eyes  bulging  out  as  in  envy,  have  come  to  him. 
They  have  come  to  complain  of  the  song  of  the 
Nightingale.  Chantecler  has  never  yet  heard  the 
Nightingale  sing.  The  ugly  croakers  may  per- 
haps be  right.  He  is  amused  and  listens  to  them. 
As  he  does  so,  he  is  suddenly  thrilled  by  the  first 
notes  of  the  sweet  warbler.  Here  then,  in  the  heart 
of  the  forest,  the  Nightingale,  representing  not  only 
the  singer  of  the  beauties  of  night,  but  perhaps  also 
the  high  singer  of  the  contemplative,  mystic  life, 
has  no  less  an  envious  pack  arrayed  against  him 
than  had  Chantecler,  the  harbinger  of  day  and  the 
lofty  idealist  of  labor  in  the  midst  of  the  foppish 
crowd  gathered  in  the  Guinea-fowl's  Salon.  Chan- 
tecler turns  upon  the  filthy,  ugly  throng  before  him, 
that  dared  to  compare  his  song  to  the  Nightingale's 
song  divine. 

It  is  difficult  to  give  in  an  account  of  the  story 
of  Chantecler,  an  idea  of  the  beauty  of  the  lines 

39 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

in  the  text,  to  which  this  study,  it  is  hoped,  will 
prove  a  fitting  introduction  and  interpretative 
commentary.  A  great  French  critic  in  an  essay  on 
Victor  Hugo's  works  dwells  on  the  orchestral  quali- 
ties of  some  of  the  great  poet's  verse.  This  or- 
chestral quality  in  the  poetry  of  Victor  Hugo  is 
even  more  pronounced  in  the  poetry  of  Rostand, 
as  is  exemplified  in  this  scene  in  our  play. 

In  reply  to  Chantecler  and  to  the  song  of 
the  Nightingale,  the  Toads  flaunt  their  ugliness. 
Swayed  by  the  rhythm  of  the  Nightingale's  exqui- 
site ditty,  Chantecler  takes  up  the  measure,  boldly, 
defiantly,  as  becomes  the  Trumpeter  of  Day.  The 
envious  crowds  gradually  recede  till  they  are  heard 
no  more,  while  the  rest  of  the  forest  seems  to  take 
new  life  in  answer  to  Chantecler's  generous  call. 
"One  must  sing!  sing!  even  when  one  knows 
that  there  are  songs  to  be  preferred  to  one's  song." 
Sing  till  death, — the  song  here  symbolizing  noble 
aspirations, — is  what  Rostand  clearly  says,  for  the 
Nightingale  has  not  had  time  to  finish  his  song  be- 
fore he  is  brought  down  by  a  shot  and  falls  dead 
at  Chantecler's  feet. 

Chantecler  is  in  despair.  He  sees  dark  within 
40 


him.  He  mourns  and  needs  to  be  soothed.  Mean- 
while the  Pheasant  has  been  watching  the  dawn 
that  is  gradually  rising.  She  comes  to  Chantecler, 
covers  him  with  her  wing,  uses  soft  words  to  be- 
guile and  lull  him,  and  when  the  opportune  moment 
for  her  has  come,  when  she  feels  that  her  close 
touch  at  such  a  time  when  his  soul  is  weakest  and 
most  impressionable  will  make  him  totter  and  per- 
haps give  up  the  fight,  she  suddenly  springs  back 
with  the  exultant  cry  that  he  has  but  to  look  and 
see  that  the  Sun  can  rise  without  his  call! 

If  Rostand's  play  puts  in  action  the  everlasting 
problem  of  the  heart  struggling  against  the  will, 
shows  us  the  fight  that  must  constantly  be  waged 
between  darkness  and  light,  between  beauty  and 
ugliness,  between  toil  and  shallow  ease,  it  is  also, 
as  one  can  see  clearly,  a  poet's  profession  of 
faith.  One  can  imagine  the  bitter  recriminations 
that  should  answer  the  Pheasant's  treachery.  But 
Chantecler  has  not  the  heart  to  do  even  that.  He 
is  at  the  critical  moment  in  life  when  a  man's  whole 
past  stands  up  before  him;  the  subsequent  act  be- 
traying the  stuff  of  which  one  is  made.  The 
Pheasant  clings  to  him  and  will  have  him  believe 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

that  a  heart  held  close  to  his  is  of  far  greater  worth 
than  a  heaven  not  necessary;  that  where  the  depths 
of  the  shade  hold  two,  darkness  is  well  worth  the 
day.  Chantecler,  bewildered,  agrees  to  this,  and 
then  with  a  supreme  effort,  as  though  awakening 
from  an  ugly  dream,  he  breaks  away  from  her. 
When  he  has  thus  finally  settled  this  matter  with 
his  own  conscience,  when  the  renaissance,  the  new 
birth,  the  "  Vita  Nuova,"  as  Dante  would  call  it, 
has  become  a  clear  reality  within  him,  then  he 
hears  and  the  better  understands  the  renewed 
song  of  a  new  warbler  that  has  taken  the  place 
of  the  Nightingale  that  is  dead.  He  can  now 
exclaim  triumphantly,  and  this  constitutes  the  great 
ultimate  lesson  in  the  play,  that  when  a  man  sees 
his  dream  dead,  he  has  but  one  alternative:  he 
must  die  of  a  sudden  or  else  rise  the  stronger. 

Chantecler  disappears.  The  Pheasant  is  left 
to  fret  and  show  a  temper.  It  may  seem  strange, 
but  by  no  means  difficult  to  understand  that  in  this 
mood  she  should  look  up  to  Chantecler  and  love 
him  best,  and  that  she  should  now  be  willing  and 
ready  to  give  up  her  very  life  to  save  his.  The 
Pheasant  has  been  caught  in  the  hidden  mesh.  The 

4* 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

play  is  over,  and  Patou,  the  philosophic  Watch- 
dog, calls  down  the  curtain,  urging  that  it  come 
down  quickly,  for  the  stage  is  now  to  be  given  over 
to  men.  Indeed,  it  is  given  over  to  men,  we  add, 
to  make  or  mar  their  lives  on  it  at  their  will  and 
pleasure. 

Such  then  is  the  play,  judging  from  what  is  ex- 
pressed in  the  text  and  from  what  is  left  to  be 
inferred  from  a  careful  study  of  it.  It  cannot  be 
said  that  the  lines  always  ring  true,  that  one  could 
not  find  here  and  there  passages  that  in  one's 
opinion  the  poet  would  have  done  well  to  alter  or 
leave  out  altogether.  This  is  largely  a  matter  of 
personal  taste.  When  a  play  is  so  replete  with 
beauty,  it  seems  ungracious  to  blur  things  by  look- 
ing too  closely  at  the  page.  Besides,  time  is  the 
only  impartial  judge  of  matters  literary.  The 
plays  that  now  rank  among  the  very  finest  produced 
in  France  have  been  those  that  have  met  with 
fiercest  opposition  at  the  time  when  they  were  first 
presented;  this  was  notably  the  case  with  Corneille's 
Le  Cid,  Racine's  Andromaque,  Moliere's  Don  Juan 
and  Tartuffe,  and  also  the  Misanthrope,  to  which 
we  have  already  alluded.  When  Victor  Hugo's 

43 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

Hernani  was  first  put  on  the  stage,  there  were  few 
lines  that  escaped  being  hissed.  One  evening  one  of 
the  actresses  drew  attention  to  the  fact  that  the 
words  she  had  to  say  in  the  play  were  thus  far 
the  only  ones  that  had  been  spared.  These  words 
were:  "  My  dear  Count,  our  men  must  keep  good 
watch  with  you."  Victor  Hugo  assured  her  that 
they  too  would  be  hissed,  and  so  they  were,  and 
that  very  evening.  As  regards  Rostand,  born  in 
1868  he  is  now  not  more  than  forty-two  years  old, 
he  is  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  he  has  already  writ- 
ten, besides  Chantecler,  les  Romanesques,  la  Prln- 
cesse  Lointaine,  la  Samarltaine ,  Cyrano  de  Ber- 
gerac,  and  I'Aiglon,  five  plays,  each  one  of  which, 
however  much  we  may  find  fault  with  them,  should 
more  than  suffice  to  establish  a  literary  reputation. 


44 


II 

have  dwelt  thus  far  on  what  we  called  the 
external  history  of  Chantecler.  We  mean  by 
that  the  story  of  Chantecler  with  reference  to  the 
general  public, — a  public  that  waited  so  long  and 
so  impatiently  the  first  opening  performance  of  the 
play.  Then  we  gave  a  critical  analysis  of  Chan- 
tecler. We  hoped  that  our  interpretation  of  it 
would  not  only  reveal  its  meaning  and  its  many 
beauties,  but  would  also  help  us  to  catch  a  glimpse, 
as  it  were,  of  the  author's  workshop,  make  us 
realize  the  thousand  and  one  notes  and  corrections 
rendered  necessary  by  the  difficulty  of  the  theme, 
and  lead  us  to  justify  the  delay  in  the  presentation 
of  the  play  in  view  of  the  passing  excellence  of  the 
result.  There  remains  to  consider  the  play  from 
behind  the  footlights  and  the  drop  curtain, — to 
indicate  what  was  done  in  the  costuming  and  the 
staging  of  Chantecler. 

The  privileged  few  who  were  allowed  access  to 

45 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

the  stage  while  the  rehearsals  for  Chantecler  were 
in  progress,  groped  through  the  dark  and  hushed 
halls  of  the  theater  of  the  Porte-Saint-Martin  to 
come  upon  a  scene  that  must  have  been  strange  in- 
deed. Mme.  Simone,  the  Pheasant,  for  instance, 
could  be  met  wearing  a  sort  of  kimono ;  to  the  back 
and  sleeves  of  this  gown  were  attached  large  wings, 
and  as  she  daintily  extended  a  feathered  end  to  be 
touched  in  greeting,  she  would  explain  that  prac- 
tice alone  could  make  her  proficient  in  the  use  of 
wings  instead  of  arms,  or  in  the  wearing  of  a  gown 
shaped  like  a  bird.  This  matter  was  far  from 
being  an  unimportant  one.  "  Tell  the  most  im- 
passioned orator,  suddenly,  that  his  wig  is  awry," 
quaintly  remarks  George  Eliot  in  her  Amos  Barton, 
"  or  his  shirt-lap  hanging  out,  and  that  he  is 
tickling  people  by  the  oddity  of  his  person,  instead 
of  thrilling  them  by  the  energy  of  his  periods,  and 
you  would  infallibly  dry  up  the  spring  of  his 
eloquence."  In  order  not  to  dry  up  the  spring  of 
their  eloquence,  those  who  assumed  the  more  im- 
portant roles  in  Chantecler,  men  and  women  alike, 
had  to  get  used  to  their  strange  clothes,  so  as  not 
to  be  too  self-conscious  in  them  and  thus  draw  too 


MADAME    LE    BARGY    AS    THE    HEN     PHEASANT 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

much  the  attention  of  the  audience  to  them,  with 
the  consequent  danger  of  the  actors  becoming  half- 
hearted in  their  work. 

But  would  not  the  actors  in  the  play  be  less 
effective  in  their  roles  owing  to  the  fact  that  their 
garb  did  not  allow  sufficient  freedom  to  the  arms 
and  legs  in  gesticulation?  The  actors'  fears  were 
all  the  more  justified  inasmuch  as  the  author's 
original  intention  was  to  do  away  with  facial  ex- 
pression altogether;  he  wished  to  have  these  actors 
cover  their  faces  with  masks  representing  the  Birds 
and  Animals  they  were  to  enact.  Without  going  as 
far  back  as  the  ancient  Greeks  whose  theatrical 
performers,  as  we  know,  wore  hideous  masks  and 
the  stilted  cothurnus  when  presenting  their  great 
masterpieces  in  verse,  let  us  relate  an  experience  of 
our  own  with  reference  to  this  matter.  A  number 
of  years  ago  we  went  in  company  with  a  friend  to 
see  an  Italian  fantocci  show  in  Boston.  It  was  a 
dingy  little  place,  although  its  front  wall  covered 
with  large  flamboyant  daubs  and  inscriptions  indi- 
cated that  they  were  to  present  the  "  Taking  of 
Taormina  "  on  that  day.  We  need  scarcely  explain 
that  the  Italian  fantocci  are  vast  puppets  used  in  a 

47 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

Punch  and  Judy  show  on  a  heroic  scale,  and  this 
was  the  case  with  the  puppets  we  saw  in  Boston. 
The  warriors  bold  and  the  romantic  ladies — those 
within  and  about  Taormina — were  life-like  in  size, 
and  perhaps  even  larger  than  that.  It  was  in  vain 
that  the  reader  from  behind  the  scenes  tried  to  put 
life  in  us  by  his  passionate  narration  of  the  story, 
we  were  altogether  too  conscious  of  the  hands  high 
above  the  stage  that  from  time  to  time  were  seen 
prodding  and  heaving  long  irons  with  which  they 
manipulated  the  gawky  knights,  now  making  them 
raise  one  arm,  now  another,  or  shoving  them  limp- 
ing off  the  stage.  But  our  curiosity  in  this  respect 
being  soon  satisfied,  we  began  to  pay  more  atten- 
tion to  the  story.  The  grotesqueness  of  the  show 
was  soon  lost  sight  of,  the  fantocci  became  mere 
shadows,  faint  adumbrations,  that  helped  to  sus- 
tain the  images  that  the  story  awakened  in  our 
minds. 

After  we  left  that  strange  dark  chamber,  we 
compared  notes  as  to  our  impressions,  and  we  were 
surprised  to  find  to  what  extent  we  had  mentally 
participated  in  the  action  of  the  story.  We  attrib- 
uted this  to  the  fact  that  a  double  appeal,  equally 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

strong,  to  eye  and  ear,  is  to  the  detriment  of  the 
one  or  the  other.  We  also  concluded  that  when 
the  attention  was  shifted  now  to  the  one,  now  to 
the  other,  the  inward  vision  was  not  allowed  to 
have  undisturbed  play,  and  the  story  suffered  in 
consequence :  in  the  case  of  the  poetic  drama,  it  was 
the  verse,  the  poetic  vision,  that  under  those  con- 
ditions likewise  suffered  in  consequence. 

In  order  to  bring  this  point  nearer  home,  let 
us  ask  whether  the  state  of  reverie  brought  about 
and  sustained  in  us  by  sound,  as  the  ticking  of  a 
clock,  the  trickling  of  a  stream,  the  drizzling  of 
rain  upon  the  loft;  or  by  sight,  as  by  gazing  on 
flaming  logs,  or  on  crystal  balls,  whether,  we  ask, 
that  state  of  reverie  would  not  be  rendered  difficult 
or  at  least  be  greatly  disturbed,  should  we  attempt 
to  divide  our  attention  and  give  heed  at  the  same 
time  to  crystal  gazing  and  to  the  trickling  of  the 
stream,  to  the  flaming  of  logs,  and  to  the  sound 
of  drizzling  rain.  Even  in  attempts  the  most  artis- 
tic to  weld  motion  and  sound,  as  in  the  dancing  of 
Isadora  Duncan  to  the  music  of  Beethoven,  who 
will  say  that  the  attention  is  not  drawn  now  to  the 
one,  now  to  the  other,  thus  disturbing  the  unity  of 

42 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

both,  and,  furthermore,  who  will  affirm  that  the 
moods  and  visions  awakened  in  him  are  not 
altogether  too  fleeting,  too  fragmentary,  be- 
cause of  the  divided  interest  in  the  music  and  the 
dance  ? 

This  leads  us  to  conclude  with  regard  to  the 
poetic  drama,  for  it  is  with  reference  to  the  poetic 
drama  that  the  foregoing  remarks  are  made,  that 
our  modern  attempts  to  lay  so  much  stress  on  cos- 
tumes and  stage  settings,  on  everything  in  fact  that 
appeals  too  powerfully  to  the  eye,  are  a  detriment 
to  the  verse.  The  Greek  method  of  presentation  of 
the  drama,  and  the  method  Rostand  would  have 
adopted  and  in  part  did  adopt,  ridiculous  as  it 
may  seeni,  has  its  justification,  and  this  justification 
lies  in  the  very  nature  of  the  workings  of  the  mind. 
We  cannot  take  in  at  the  same  time  two  things 
equally  well.  The  animated  pictures  from  the 
kinetoscope  may  rightfully  appeal  strongly  to  the 
eye,  and  none  will  say  that  it  is  the  claptrap  piano 
that  can  or  does  detract  from  their  interest;  but 
the  poetic  drama  must  be  presented  in  a  manner  to 
appeal  mainly  to  the  ear.  In  this  direction  lies 
logic,  since  truth  must  guide  art. 

50 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

Coquelin  was  no  less  perturbed  than  the  Pheas- 
ant regarding  the  possible  ineffectiveness  of  his 
role  when  not  aided  by  more  or  less  large,  or  subtle 
gestures.  Coquelin  was  essentially  an  actor  given 
over  to  romantic  and  comic  parts.  He  had  a  won- 
derful voice,  richly  resonant  and  of  unusual  range, 
and  he  also  had  dash.  The  character  of  Cyrano  de 
Bergerac,  through  which  he  carried .  Rostand  to 
universal  fame,  was  essentially  brilliant.  It  called 
for  considerable  action  and  sparkled  with  wit.  It 
was  eminently  fitted  to  Coquelin's  nature.  The 
character  of  the  Cock  is  equally  varied,  no  less  bril- 
liant, no  less  exacting  than  the  role  of  Cyrano,  it 
demands  even  larger  powers  of  voice,  and  is,  be- 
sides, if  not  so  consistent  nor  so  subtle,  far  more 
poetic  than  Cyrano.  How  could  the  actor  present 
all  this  without  adding  to  the  voice  the  full  freedom 
of  the  limbs  ?  M.  Edel,  the  well  known  artistic  cos- 
tumer,  undertook  to  reassure  Coquelin  with  regard 
to  that  matter. 

M.  Edel  had  been  called  upon  to  design  all  the 
costumes  for  Chantecler.  It  was  an  arduous  task. 
He  was  for  months  at  work  on  the  subject,  and  the 
two  hundred  sketches  or  more,  of  cocks,  and  hens, 

51 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

and  what  not,  attest  the  difficulty  of  his  under- 
taking. Not  only  was  he  to  be  true  to  nature,  in 
so  far  as  that  was  expedient  for  the  purpose  of 
the  play,  but  he  was  also  to  see  to  the  comfort  and 
satisfy  the  vanity  of  those  who  were  to  wear  the 
clothes.  Furthermore,  the  costumes  were  to  be  in 
keeping  with  the  characters  as  portrayed  in  the 
drama,  for  these  animals  were  also  symbols,  each 
stood  for  an  idea,  and  the  costume  was  to  suggest 
that  idea.  These  costumes  were,  then,  to  be  made 
for  comfort, — not  too  warm,  not  too  heavy,  nor 
too  complicated  to  put  on;  they  were  to  be  artistic, 
— shapely  and  attractive  to  the  eye;  and  over  and 
above  all  that  they  were  to  suggest  the  character 
each  animal  assumed  in  the  play.  M.  Edel  was  so 
far  successful  in  this  that  the  last  and  final  drawings 
he  sent  to  Rostand  at  Cambo,  elicited  the  enthusias- 
tic approval  of  the  author.  "  The  drawings  of  M. 
Edel,"  Rostand  wrote  in  a  telegram  to  the  man- 
agers of  the  Porte-Saint-Martin,  "  idealize  my 
work." 

It  still  remained  to  please  the  actors  in  the 
cast.  The  success  of  M.  Edel  in  convincing  Coque- 
lin  -as  to  the  adaptability  of  the  plans  mapped  out 

52 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

with  regard  to  the  costuming,  would  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  have  served  to  bring  conviction  to  the 
other  members  of  the  troupe.  M.  Edel's  birds 
necessarily  had  wings;  these  wings  could  not  be 
used  with  the  freedom  of  a  foil;  a  certain  amount 
of  reserve  was  necessary  in  gesticulation.  It  so 
happened  that  one  day  M.  Edel  went  to  see  Coque- 
lin  at  a  time  when  the  great  actor  was  still  enjoying 
his  morning  bath.  M.  Edel  talked  costumes,  and 
this  led  the  conversation  on  the  topic  of  Rostand's 
verse.  Coquelin  leaned  his  head  back,  and  began 
declaiming  in  magnificently  resonant  tones  the 
Cock's  great  song  to  the  Sun  in  the  first  act  of 
Chantecler.  M.  Edel  listened,  and  then,  when 
Coquelin  was  through,  he  smiled  and  pointed  out 
to  the  Cock  that  in  reciting  that  great  song  his 
hands  had  not  been  taken  out  once  from  the  bath. 
The  parts,  therefore,  could  surely  be  presented 
without  the  customary  large  gestures;  there  was 
no  doubt  as  to  that.  Coquelin  had  to  give  in,  and 
M.  Edel's  plans  were  adopted. 

Another  matter  that  called  for  attention  was  the 
relative  dimensions  of  the  actors  and  the  theatrical 
properties.  The  first  act,  for  instance,  is  situated 

53 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

in  a  barn-yard.  Looking  at  the  illustrations  of  the 
stage  setting  for  that  act,  we  see  to  the  right  of  the 
spectators  a  kennel  for  the  philosophic  Patou, 
above  the  kennel  there  hangs  a  bridle  to  which  are 
attached  many  jingling  bells,  then  comes  a  stable, 
and  behind  that  a  hay  stack;  the  Cat  is  perched  high 
up  on  large  stone  flags  lying  between  the  stable  and 
an  abandoned  cart  of  which  the  shafts  are  seen 
pointing  to  the  sky;  next  we  have  a  path  leading 
away  from  the  barnyard  to  the  fine  stretch  of  fields 
seen  in  the  distance;  to  the  extreme  left  is  a  cage 
for  the  Black-bird,  above  the  cage  is  a  halter,  and 
below  these  some  ninepins,  a  ball,  and  a  wooden 
shoe.  There  is  so  much  open  space  in  the  kennel 
and  in  the  cage  in  which  are  M.  Jean  Coquelin,  as 
the  Dog,  and  M.  Galipaux,  the  Black-bird,  that 
the  cage  and  the  kennel  and  all  the  other  objects 
on  the  stage  must  have  been  made  enormously 
large.  This  was  indeed  the  case,  for  every 
object  on  the  stage  had  to  be  in  keeping  with  the 
proportions  established  by  the  height  of  the 
Cock.  A  chair  in  the  third  act,  for  instance,  was 
three  meters  high,  and  the  fruits  and  flowers  and 
all  the  objects  on  the  stage  were  enlarged  in  pro- 

54 


portion.  It  was  like  mural  painting,  this  feeling 
for  the  congruous  and  for  fine  perspective. 

M.  Rostand  had  good  reasons  to  thank  M. 
Amable,  M.  Paquereau,  and  M.  Jusseaume,  for 
the  scenic  arrangements  in  Chantecler.  We  re- 
member with  keen  pleasure  the  exquisite  studies  in 
miniature  of  scenes  and  stage  decorations  exhibited 
in  Paris  by  these  artists  two  years  ago.  Like  M. 
Edel,  their  purpose  in  Chantecler  was  to  see  to  the 
comfort  of  the  players,  attend  to  the  beauty  of  the 
whole,  and  help  as  much  as  possible  to  create  an 
atmosphere  in  keeping  with  the  play. 

The  beautiful  scenes  for  the  second  and  fourth 
acts  of  Chantecler  are  by  M.  Jusseaume.  Judging 
once  more  from  illustrations  before  us,  we  have, 
for  the  second  act,  a  beautiful  stretch  of  arable 
land  with  gently  undulating  hills  in  the  distance. 
A  winding  stream  flows  towards  us  from  those 
hills,  and  seems  to  stretch  out  arms  along  its  path 
in  a  desire  to  give  richly  of  itself  to  every  thirsty 
nook  and  patch  of  verdure.  Here  and  there  tall 
poplars  stand  out  like  sentinels  on  duty,  or  like 
fine  church  spires  pointing  to  the  sky.  This 
scene  gains  by  contrast  with  the  scene  for  the 

55 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

fourth  act.  The  latter  is  closed  in;  it  is  somber; 
it  suggests  not  labor  and  duty,  but  waste  and 
danger.  The  old  trees  of  the  forest  reach  out  their 
thick  branches  to  one  another  with  undulations 
that  call  to  mind  huge  boa  constrictors.  In  the 
center,  we  see  an  enormous  bare  trunk,  half  burnt 
and  caved  in;  there  is  also  a  large  poisonous  toad- 
stool seen  rising  near  the  huge  gap.  These  are 
fine  scenes,  fully  suggestive  of  the  main  theme  in 
each  of  the  acts  for  which  they  are  designed.  M. 
Jusseaume  has  brought  the  heart  and  brain  of  a 
poet  to  his  interpretation  of  Rostand's  poetic 
dream. 

When  all  is  said,  when  we  have  passed  in 
review  the  host  of  carpenters,  mechanics,  elec- 
tricians, tailors,  flower  makers,  feather  venders, 
who  directly  or  indirectly  solicited  the  attention  of 
the  author, — for  nothing  was  decided  upon  with- 
out the  approval  of  M.  Rostand;  when  we  have 
stopped  to  consider  the  many  rehearsals  of  the 
play  at  which  the  author's  presence  was  necessary; 
when  we  have  realized  all  the  difficulties  that  had 
to  be  overcome  before  everything  could  be  made 
to  move  smoothly  and  harmoniously  in  the  effort 

56 


THE  STORY  OF  CHANTECLER 

to  create  in  the  minds  of  the  hearers  an  illusion  as 
of  a  splendid  dream,  then  we  come  to  the  starting 
point  of  our  study,  to  pass  from  there  to  the 
study  of  the  play  itself,  for  "  the  play  is  the  thing." 


57 


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